OK, so for the first time I am posting something here for critique. I love this scene. In fact, it will probably appear on the cover of the book. However, I am not so sure that I love the way I have written it.
This excerpt is midway through Chapter Four, of Book Three, of a trilogy -- with the first two books already in print. So character development isn't an issue here, because they should be developed elsewhere by now or I'm in big trouble. Also, the names are absolutely set in stone, and changing the overall style is not exactly an option either.
So, um, I'm not exactly sure what I am asking for here. Just everyone go ahead and fulfill my unspoken wish, satisfy my as yet imperfectly realized desire. Is that too much to ask?
Alternatively, you can take your revenge for any critiques I've done on your work.
The lessons in magic continued. Under Camhóinhann’s tutelage, images of dark and light flooded Winloki’s mind. Under his guidance, her perceptions were wonderfully enlarged; she began to detect geometries of relationship and distance wherever she looked. Familiar shapes stood out in bright relief. The world became alive with meaning.
On one memorable evening he taught her how two minds linked (if they possessed sufficient power between them) might range freely over great distances.
She found herself rushing through the air, the dusky landscape a dizzying panorama below. Cities passed in the blink of an eye, vast stretches of field and marsh and woodland. For a time they followed the course of a dull silver river unreeling like a skein of silk below them. She had already passed so far beyond any familiar landmarks it was impossible to guess the direction of their flight, whether they headed west, east, north, or south. A range of hills came hurtling toward them, and a line of ice-colored peaks glittering in the last light of sunset. Even knowing herself bodiless, she flinched instinctively at the expected collison.
Instead, they ascended, spiralling upward. Cliffs, wooded heights, ice-hung precipices flashed past and then were gone. All around her she scented pine and snow; then came a searing cold that had no scent at all. Abruptly they stopped, and Winloki scarcely had time to take note of her surroundings before Camhóinhann materialized, and she along with him.
They stood at the edge of a fearful precipice, looking down on a range of mountains far below: at spires, ridges, vertical slopes, sea-green glaciers, all tiny with distance. She dared not look behind, or to left or right, for fear there might be another sheer drop.
We stand on the highest peak of the Tarian Duillan: Penaedeir, the father of all mountains. His lips did not move as he spoke, and she realized that his voice was speaking inside her mind, a sensation she had never experienced before. Not even the great eagles fly so high.
The sky overhead had gone from dusky grey to deep purple. Winloki felt as though she might almost reach up and touch the lamps of the stars, or the planets strung out like jewels across the firmament. But the rock beneath her feet had been polished by the elements to a glassy surface like obsidian. Buffeted by a wind that beat around her like mighty wings she dared not move an inch for fear she would slip. I feel as though I might be swept from the mountaintop at any moment.
As so you would, if you were not here with me. We are in the realm of the greater elements, where even magicians and wizards venture at their peril. And this is no ordinary wind: we call it The Wind that Moves the Worlds.
Indeed, it felt to her as though it were blowing from some frozen region far beyond the moon. Yet though she felt chilled, she saw that their breath did not whiten the frigid air. But these aren’t -- they can’t be -- our real bodies?
No, he answered, we left those behind at Quiranöerion. These forms you see are made of more subtle stuff, and can only mimic what our real bodies feel.
But can they be harmed? Even with him beside her, she did not feel quite safe.
They are products of the mind, and through them the mind can be driven to madness or even death. Yet they are hardier than our real bodies, while they last. If we stay too long, they will begin to fade.
And then? Winloki looked at her hand, wondering if it was as solid now as it had been a moment past. In the ghostly light of the stars the snow shone blue; everything appeared insubstantial.
The link with the real body would break. But if you do not trust me to guide you home in time, we can return now.
No, she said. Oh no. You have brought me here to teach me something. I wish to stay and learn.
Yet it took all her courage to say so. The wind seemed to blow right through her, scattering her thoughts. She felt herself impaled by spears of starlight; the elements roared around her as a mighty chaos. What had appeared to be no more than a wisp of cloud overhead let down a blizzard of sleet and snow. Panic clutched at her throat.
Do not resist them, he said. Fire, air, and water are fluid and mutable, therefore capable of being controlled. Draw them into you; only in that way will you begin to understand them.
I dare not, she answered. They are too powerful.
But not more powerful than the magician’s will. Through the drifts of falling snow and sleet, his eyes glowed like stars; the light of his face became almost unbearable.
She yearned to please him, to show herself worthy, that he might not be ashamed of their shared blood. And still she hesitated, afraid that if she did as he told her she might be utterly consumed.
But if she did not do this, she sensed that her education in magic ended here. All her life she had had the courage to resist; until this moment she had believed that was the whole of valor. Now she must learn to be brave in an entirely new way, and find the courage to submit. Let them possess me, she thought, that I might possess them.
And so she yielded herself to the power of the wind, and it came rushing in, blowing through the chambers of her heart, setting her blood on fire. Standing there on the roof of the world, she felt herself in the grip of natural energies too immense to be regulated by the clockwork of time. Ice crystals scoured her. For some immeasurable period of time they obscured her vision so completely, she might have been alone, lost in the whiteness.
Then his voice spoke to her again: Intelligence, energy, knowledge, and will, that is the whole of magic. Who controls these may work wonders.
As the magic quickened within her, a wild happiness leaped into being. Bathed in power, she experienced a primitive delight; the pleasure she felt was not of the mind only, but of every particle of her being. She knew herself, blood and bones, nerves and sinews, as part of a living universe. She felt herself capable of enormous thoughts.
Slowly, the wind abated. The snow no longer flamed; the fire no longer froze her. She turned toward Camhóinhann, and saw that some of his radiance had faded. Yet an aura of glory still clung to him as he reached for her hand. Now it is time to return.
For the briefest moment she felt their pulses as one. And a picture came into her mind unexpectedly: a burning heart that blazed like the sun, imprisoned in an iron cage. She could have wept to see that great captive heart, had she any tears in that place to weep.
But now they were plummeting down, past the cliffs and pine trees, the towers and buttresses of stone. For a moment the hills reeled round and round beneath them, then they went hurtling past fields, cities, and farms, following the thread of the river home.
This excerpt is midway through Chapter Four, of Book Three, of a trilogy -- with the first two books already in print. So character development isn't an issue here, because they should be developed elsewhere by now or I'm in big trouble. Also, the names are absolutely set in stone, and changing the overall style is not exactly an option either.
So, um, I'm not exactly sure what I am asking for here. Just everyone go ahead and fulfill my unspoken wish, satisfy my as yet imperfectly realized desire. Is that too much to ask?
Alternatively, you can take your revenge for any critiques I've done on your work.
The lessons in magic continued. Under Camhóinhann’s tutelage, images of dark and light flooded Winloki’s mind. Under his guidance, her perceptions were wonderfully enlarged; she began to detect geometries of relationship and distance wherever she looked. Familiar shapes stood out in bright relief. The world became alive with meaning.
On one memorable evening he taught her how two minds linked (if they possessed sufficient power between them) might range freely over great distances.
She found herself rushing through the air, the dusky landscape a dizzying panorama below. Cities passed in the blink of an eye, vast stretches of field and marsh and woodland. For a time they followed the course of a dull silver river unreeling like a skein of silk below them. She had already passed so far beyond any familiar landmarks it was impossible to guess the direction of their flight, whether they headed west, east, north, or south. A range of hills came hurtling toward them, and a line of ice-colored peaks glittering in the last light of sunset. Even knowing herself bodiless, she flinched instinctively at the expected collison.
Instead, they ascended, spiralling upward. Cliffs, wooded heights, ice-hung precipices flashed past and then were gone. All around her she scented pine and snow; then came a searing cold that had no scent at all. Abruptly they stopped, and Winloki scarcely had time to take note of her surroundings before Camhóinhann materialized, and she along with him.
They stood at the edge of a fearful precipice, looking down on a range of mountains far below: at spires, ridges, vertical slopes, sea-green glaciers, all tiny with distance. She dared not look behind, or to left or right, for fear there might be another sheer drop.
We stand on the highest peak of the Tarian Duillan: Penaedeir, the father of all mountains. His lips did not move as he spoke, and she realized that his voice was speaking inside her mind, a sensation she had never experienced before. Not even the great eagles fly so high.
The sky overhead had gone from dusky grey to deep purple. Winloki felt as though she might almost reach up and touch the lamps of the stars, or the planets strung out like jewels across the firmament. But the rock beneath her feet had been polished by the elements to a glassy surface like obsidian. Buffeted by a wind that beat around her like mighty wings she dared not move an inch for fear she would slip. I feel as though I might be swept from the mountaintop at any moment.
As so you would, if you were not here with me. We are in the realm of the greater elements, where even magicians and wizards venture at their peril. And this is no ordinary wind: we call it The Wind that Moves the Worlds.
Indeed, it felt to her as though it were blowing from some frozen region far beyond the moon. Yet though she felt chilled, she saw that their breath did not whiten the frigid air. But these aren’t -- they can’t be -- our real bodies?
No, he answered, we left those behind at Quiranöerion. These forms you see are made of more subtle stuff, and can only mimic what our real bodies feel.
But can they be harmed? Even with him beside her, she did not feel quite safe.
They are products of the mind, and through them the mind can be driven to madness or even death. Yet they are hardier than our real bodies, while they last. If we stay too long, they will begin to fade.
And then? Winloki looked at her hand, wondering if it was as solid now as it had been a moment past. In the ghostly light of the stars the snow shone blue; everything appeared insubstantial.
The link with the real body would break. But if you do not trust me to guide you home in time, we can return now.
No, she said. Oh no. You have brought me here to teach me something. I wish to stay and learn.
Yet it took all her courage to say so. The wind seemed to blow right through her, scattering her thoughts. She felt herself impaled by spears of starlight; the elements roared around her as a mighty chaos. What had appeared to be no more than a wisp of cloud overhead let down a blizzard of sleet and snow. Panic clutched at her throat.
Do not resist them, he said. Fire, air, and water are fluid and mutable, therefore capable of being controlled. Draw them into you; only in that way will you begin to understand them.
I dare not, she answered. They are too powerful.
But not more powerful than the magician’s will. Through the drifts of falling snow and sleet, his eyes glowed like stars; the light of his face became almost unbearable.
She yearned to please him, to show herself worthy, that he might not be ashamed of their shared blood. And still she hesitated, afraid that if she did as he told her she might be utterly consumed.
But if she did not do this, she sensed that her education in magic ended here. All her life she had had the courage to resist; until this moment she had believed that was the whole of valor. Now she must learn to be brave in an entirely new way, and find the courage to submit. Let them possess me, she thought, that I might possess them.
And so she yielded herself to the power of the wind, and it came rushing in, blowing through the chambers of her heart, setting her blood on fire. Standing there on the roof of the world, she felt herself in the grip of natural energies too immense to be regulated by the clockwork of time. Ice crystals scoured her. For some immeasurable period of time they obscured her vision so completely, she might have been alone, lost in the whiteness.
Then his voice spoke to her again: Intelligence, energy, knowledge, and will, that is the whole of magic. Who controls these may work wonders.
As the magic quickened within her, a wild happiness leaped into being. Bathed in power, she experienced a primitive delight; the pleasure she felt was not of the mind only, but of every particle of her being. She knew herself, blood and bones, nerves and sinews, as part of a living universe. She felt herself capable of enormous thoughts.
Slowly, the wind abated. The snow no longer flamed; the fire no longer froze her. She turned toward Camhóinhann, and saw that some of his radiance had faded. Yet an aura of glory still clung to him as he reached for her hand. Now it is time to return.
For the briefest moment she felt their pulses as one. And a picture came into her mind unexpectedly: a burning heart that blazed like the sun, imprisoned in an iron cage. She could have wept to see that great captive heart, had she any tears in that place to weep.
But now they were plummeting down, past the cliffs and pine trees, the towers and buttresses of stone. For a moment the hills reeled round and round beneath them, then they went hurtling past fields, cities, and farms, following the thread of the river home.
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